


Tabula Rasa

by EventHorizon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Meetings, M/M, pre-Mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-02-09 11:46:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1981800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EventHorizon/pseuds/EventHorizon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade hoped to find Sherlock and John when he went to their flat about a case.  What he actually found was far more interesting...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tabula Rasa

      “Sherlock!  Why in the name of god aren’t you answering your phone?  I swear if you’ve blocked my number again I’ll…”

Lestrade barreled up the stairs and into the consulting detective’s flat only to stop short and stare at the person who was calmly staring back at him.

      “I believe you will find that Sherlock is currently not at home.”

Very well spoken, expensive suit, waiting like he was… well, waiting.  Client, maybe?  Figured Sherlock would be late for that.  Lestrade was surprised John didn’t have a better handle on things, though.  The doctor was usually very good about keeping track of Sherlock’s appointment calendar, since it was a mainstay in paying their bills.

      “Oh, well then… any idea when he’ll be back?  Or when he should have been here in the first place?”

The tidy figure twirled his umbrella in his hands and studied Lestrade with a keen gaze that reminded the DI a great deal of the person he was there to see in the first place.

      “No to both of your inquiries, I’m afraid.   However, I would suspect that the wait would not be interminable, owing to the fact that the flat was left open to any vagabonds that might wander in unannounced.”

Which, Lestrade hoped, wasn’t a description of him.  Trying for the casual look, one hand was run through his hair, in the direction most likely to tame the wind-mussed strands and the other went into his jacket pocket, pushing downward to try and diminish any major wrinkles.  Why he was doing this, he had no clue, but apparently his brain had decided on a course of action and didn’t see fit to inform him about stupid things like reasons.

      “Oh.  Well, then…”

      “You could wait, of course.  That would likely be a wise choice owing to the inclemency of the weather.”

Lestrade cast a glance out of the windows and had to admit that in the few moments since he’d been outside, the skies had darkened appreciably and the noise in the distance didn’t really sound like traffic.

      “Yeah, that might not be a bad plan.  And I’m…”

If this was a client, saying he was with the police might not be the best decision.  If he spooked a paying customer, John, at least, would have his head on a platter.

      “I’m Greg.”

      “Very solid.  A fitting name, I am quite certain.”

      “Yeah, well… thanks for that.  And you are?”

Now, apparently, his brain was cataloging smiles, because the one this man was giving him immediately was described and filed away under ‘toe curling’ in his head.

      “Mycroft.”

Ok…not the norm, but it fit the gent perfectly.  Probably money so old it spoke Aramaic…

      “Nice to meet you, Mycroft.  Can I… how about a cup of tea while we wait?”

Hah!  Good to know that the calm exterior could be ruffled a bit, even if he’d only seen because he’d had a lot of practice picking up on Sherlock’s barely-noticeable-when-he-didn’t-want-them-noticed ruffles.

      “That would seem a bit presumptuous…”

      “Nah, for all the times Sherlock broke into my flat and stole whatever took his fancy, I can steal a cup of tea.  Two cups even, and he’ll still owe me.  And don’t get me started on how many pints behind John is on our pub tab…”

Lestrade strolled into the kitchen, put down the folder he was carrying and began getting the water to boil.  In a few seconds, footsteps said his new chum was joining him in the kitchen.

      “Why don’t you look for some biscuits, Mycroft?  John always hides a few packages around.  You may have to really search for the good ones, though… he says if he doesn’t at least do a credible job of stowing them away, Sherlock eats all of them in one go just to be a prick.  Doesn’t eat… what a load of rot.”

Now, maybe _this_ wasn’t the best way to treat a potential client of the great consulting detective.  But, since Lestrade wasn’t the secretary and… well, this Mycroft hadn’t bowed out and left, had he… so friendly and welcoming he’d be.  But maybe…

      “You know, I probably should ask if you’re a client.  Hate to give a bad impression of the lads and chase off their business.  They’re really good at what they do, just so you know… best out there…”

      “Client?  Heavens no.   More… an old acquaintance.”

Whew!  Then Mycroft had to have some idea about those two and any little slips wouldn’t sink Sherlock’s financial ship.

      “Ok, good.  Got worried for a moment that I might be doing them a bad turn for business.  Found those biscuits yet?”

Men that posh shouldn’t have a musical hum, but Lestrade had to admit that this Mycroft did a nice job of it as he surveyed the kitchen and started to open the cupboards.

      “Doctor Watson really should take into account handedness when he secrets away items of importance.  Already I have located the first of my quarry.”

      “Yes!  And those are good ones, too.  Nice job, Mycroft.”

Men that posh should also not have a grin that was 95% wickedly-triumphant and 5% shyly-pleased, but this chap seemed to love defying stereotypes.  And pushing certain buttons in Lestrade’s brain that hadn’t been pushed in quite some time.  Buttons that operated gears and levers that shouldn’t be discussed in polite company.

      “I am braced by your commendation.  Perhaps that will spur another victory on my part.  Oh, and do watch the kettle, Gregory.”

Crap, he hadn’t even noticed it was ready.  And _Gregory_ … anyone else called him that and he’d give them what for, but  it didn’t sound too bad coming from the man currently calling the jar of oregano in his hand mass-produced desiccated farmyard weeds.

      “Can only buy what they sell, you know.  You… you do a lot of cooking?  One of those gourmet types?”

Mycroft turned and Lestrade had to admit that he had a profile that should be on a coin.

      “I can’t claim a great deal of time in the kitchen, but when I am able, I do enjoy the intricacies of food preparation.”

      “Lucky you.  I can’t even keep my eye on a kettle properly, so doing more than a quick bit of pasta or toast is out of the question.  But, that’s why they invented take-away, right?”

      “As long as the offerings are appropriate.  Please do not disillusion me by singing the praises of any establishment having more than one location within the boundaries of our glorious city.”

      “Crap food?  Well, I can’t say I’m a virgin in that area because sometimes it’s all you’ve got access to when you’re on the job, but I can proudly say I don’t pick it when I’ve got the choice.   Got my own little list by the phone.  Who to call for Chinese, pizza, Thai, Italian… great little place for Italian called Vivaldi’s that has the best…”

      “Tortellini.”

      “You know them?”

      “Quite well, though I am surprised that you do.  It is likely the least publicized of its brethren, though their cuisine is, by far, the most enjoyable.”

      “You got that right.  I’ve tried more places that I can count and they win hand’s down.”

      “Thus their inclusion on your list of superlatives.”

      “Exactly!  Here, tea… fix it how you like it and did you… how’d you find three more biscuit packages!”

      “Doctor Watson is not, I’m afraid, highly suited for the espionage game.  Were he assigned to safeguard the stereotypical Top Secret documents, we would all be well served to review our lessons for surviving a nuclear attack.”

      “Duck and cover, right?”

      “Of course.  Hence my preference for carrying an umbrella.”

Lestrade snorted a rather embarrassing laugh, but it brought a smile to Mycroft’s face anyway.

      “Better invest in one myself, then, with that endorsement.”

      “I shall recommend only the best.”

Lestrade dropped into one of the kitchen chairs, shoving out of the way a large pile of Sherlock’s nonsense and motioned Mycroft to join him.  After considering the duties of a host and the need for a plate for their treats, Lestrade decided that he wasn’t _really_ a proper host, so just opened the biscuit packages and dove in for one, happily noting that Mycroft wasn’t far behind.  In the background of their lovely domestic scene, the sound of heavy raindrops hitting the windows attracted Lestrade’s attention.

      “You were right, there’s the rain.”

      “I do hope that Sherlock and John are not subject to this torrent.  Sherlock becomes inestimably more difficult to deal with when he is uncomfortable.”

      “True.  Though he'll take a knife through the heart before giving up that coat of his, no matter how hot or humid the day.  Should give the bloody thing a name.”

      “He does enjoy cutting a dramatic figure, doesn’t he?  I am curious whether a search of the premises would produce photographs taken purely for the purpose of showcasing his billowing silhouette.”

Lestrade laughed and made a mental bet that he _would_ find something very similar if he took a look at the photos on John’s phone.

      “May I ask, however, Gregory… what brings you here on this stormy day?”

Since it had been established that Mycroft wasn’t a client, there wasn’t much harm in talking about his job, was there?

      “Got a case for Sherlock to look over.”

      “A case?  Might you work in law enforcement?”

      “Yeah and when I can’t quite get to the enforcement piece on my own, I pull in Sherlock for a little help.”

      “Highly efficient.  A wise man uses all available resources to further his cause.”

      “Well, I don’t know about efficient, since it could take me all afternoon to convince him to give me a hand, but it _will_ get the job done.”

Lestrade watched Mycroft finish his current biscuit in a single bite, then reach over to pick up the folder that contained the details of the case.

      “Wait, you’re not allowed to look at that…”

      “Then we shall keep this our little secret, shall we?  Hmmmm… I do commend the thoroughness with which you have conducted this investigation.  It is a shame, however, you did not provide information on your victim’s distribution of body hair.”

      “What in the world are you talking about?”

      “Oh, a small matter of genetics.  Regardless, you should consider that information when you bring this gentlemen in to face the courts.”

Mycroft pushed over a photograph of one of the witnesses and Lestrade stared at it hoping it would clue him in to what was going on.

      “This one?”

      “Quite.  I am entirely certain that with a small amount of further reflection and fact-gathering you will have an impressive portfolio to present the prosecution.”

Lestrade felt much like he did when Sherlock pulled a rabbit out of a hat and that was not what he was expecting from the man now weighing the merits of the two bakery products resting in his palm.

      “Go with the lemon.  And you’re sure about this?  You a detective or something, too?”

      “A boiling in oil would be a happier fate.  I simply enjoy the occasional puzzle.  And you are quite correct… the lemon is very palatable.”

      “I’ll uh… I’ll give it some thought and…”

      “I assure you that I am right.”

      “Yeah, but…”

      “And I will happily wager on it.”

Wager?  Now Mycroft was speaking his language.  And with a whisper of a purr in his voice that was not helping keeping his own silhouette trim in the front.

      “Ok, what are you offering?”

Another biscuit went into Mycroft’s mouth, drawing Lestrade’s attention to the man’s lips, which fixed into an almost-pout of contemplation as he thought through the question.

      “Dinner at Vivaldi’s.”

Now that was unexpected.  Very unexpected.  Not that it wasn’t a very interesting wager.  And by interesting, Lestrade meant that it would give him the opportunity to perhaps explore that almost-pout in an up close and personal fashion.

      “I win you buy, you win I buy?”

      “Precisely.”

Sometimes the most unexpected things dropped into your lap and you didn’t get to Lestrade’s rank by letting them slip through your fingers.  Especially when those unexpected things involved an evening out with this very refined and refreshing person who hadn’t complained once about his probably-lethal tea.

      “You’re on.”

      “He’s on what?”

      “Mycroft!  What are you doing here?”

Lestrade got another chance to observe Mycroft’s wickeder smile as the man in the bespoke suit turned to face the newly-arrived and dripping-wet duo.

      “Waiting for you, actually.  However, I found a far more diverting manner in which to occupy my attention.”

Why were his cheeks hot?  If Lestrade was coming down with something, he prayed it would be after he closed this case and got his win-or-lose dinner with Mycroft.

      “However, you do have business to discuss with Gregory, so I shall save my own conversation for another time.”

Lestrade ignored the in-unison ‘Gregory?’ and kept his focus on the man who was withdrawing a very nice pen from his jacket and using it to scribble something on the napkin that Lestrade _had_ been hostly enough put on the table.

      “When the case is closed, do call me and inform me of the outcome.  We shall make plans from there.”

In the next moment, Mycroft was on his feet and striding over to his vacated armchair to retrieve his umbrella and look out of the window to check the weather, which was just descending from downpour to drizzle.

      “That umbrella of yours work for rain, too, or just nuclear strikes?”

John shot a highly-confused look at the man sitting at his table as he walked by to fill the kettle again for his own cup of warmth.

      “It is a highly versatile accessory.  Shark attack and acid baths are also within its ability to repel.  This has been quite the enjoyable meeting, Detective Inspector.  I am looking very forward to hearing from you again.”

Mycroft smiled one last time, and Lestrade had to grin when the man winked at him before walking regally out of the flat.  Now that was an exit.  And… wait.  He hadn’t mentioned his rank, had he?

      “What did he say to you?  John, check his vital signs.  I will analyze the contents of his tea…”

      “Sherlock, what in the hell are you talking about?”

The detective stared at Lestrade and Lestrade simply leaned back in his chair and let the lad have his fun.

      “That you were sitting calmly at the same table as Mycroft implies he perpetrated some form of mind control on you.  I must determine whether it was chemically-mediated or if he simply preyed on your far-weaker mind.”

      “Well, that’s just an evil thing to say, thank you very much.  John, can’t you keep his muzzle on or do I need to buy you some tape?”

      “I’m sort of on his side for this one, mate.  Why in the world were you sitting here drinking tea with Mycroft?”

      “Because he happened to be here when I stopped by with this case.”

Lestrade waved the folder at Sherlock who snatched it away and began to thumb through the contents.

      “Hmmmm…. not one description of the pattern of body hair.  Typically sloppy work for your forensics team.  However… oh.  Why do you have the picture of the murderer under your tea?”

      “What?  Bollocks… ok, no harm done.   Hold on… you mean this is my suspect?”

      “Obviously.  Or should I say obviously for anyone with even a modicum of intelligence?”

      “He did it?”

      “I said that.”

      “This guy here?”

      “Greg, are you having a stroke or something?”

      “No, _Doctor_ Watson, but I am having a think about my bank account and whether I can add a few addendums to my loser-buys night out with Mycroft.”

The combined gasp nearly sucked the last molecule of oxygen out of the room.

      “Night out?”

      “With Mycroft?”

      “Yeah… so what?  We had a bet.  He picked this one out of the folder and we had dinner riding on the outcome.  Not that it was much of a wager because no matter what, I’ve got myself a date as soon as I stamp this one completed.”

      “Date?”

      “With my brother?”

It wasn’t possible to get a concussion when one was stationary, but Lestrade’s brain felt like it had been traveling at light speed then slammed into the inside of his skull.

      “Brother?  Mycroft is your brother?”

      “John, I am going to be sick.”

      “Mycroft… man in the billion-pound suit is your brother?”

      “Very sick, John.  Bring a large pail.”

      “Man with the great sense of humor who cooks, knows the best Italian in London and eats biscuits like a sexy beast is your brother?”

      “Moving on from sick to dead, John.  Call the undertaker.”

      “Well… good for me, then.”

Lestrade let his grin spread wide and treated himself to John’s cup of tea since the doctor had been frozen like an ice carving for the last several minutes.  Sherlock’s brother.  That suave, bespoke piece of temptation was Sherlock Holmes’s brother.  Which would make him Mycroft Holmes.  Now _that_ was a name… perfect for moaning when sliding around on silk sheets, bathed in candlelight…

      “Stop picturing my brother in an erotic fashion!  John!  Help me… I am losing touch with consciousness…”

      “Then we’ll all have a nice bit of quiet.  Greg… you sure this is a good idea?”

      “Oh John, I think this is a wonderful idea.  I get a date with a handsome and intelligent man and an extra helping of enraged Sherlock to round things out.  Could anything be better?”

John stole back his tea, thought twice and walked over to a cupboard to pull down his bottle of good scotch instead.

      “Well, if you two hit it off, Sherlock might get a brother-in-law out of the bargain and that _could_ be good for a few laughs.”

The quiet groaning of the sodden and despondent lump of flesh and fabric huddled against the wall didn’t make even a dent in Lestrade’s good mood.  He had a feeling they _would_ hit it off, actually.  _Had_ hit it off, to be precise.  And now, he had an evening of good food, wine and a few more drinks at a very classy and dimly-lit pub he knew to see just how hard that hitting off had been.

      “Can’t go wrong with a few laughs.  And… yes. I’m officially off the clock, so pour me a nice dollop of that scotch and we can plan what I’ll wear for my big date.  Sherlock, you got any ideas?”

      “A straight jacket.”

      “Laughs already starting.  This is going to be good…”


End file.
